Not Even Human
by Kazuhiro
Summary: When Grimmjow and Ulquiorra were humans. When they were mere mortals. What were they thinking, who were they and how are they connected?
1. The Set

I do not own Bleach

Stage 1 – The Set

He clutched the cold piece of iron with his sweating, trembling hands. He was just another soldier on this field of death. Although trying to keep calm and collected, he was itching to shoot his gun like wild and end this whole damn war right now. His gaze shifted from the field to his comrades. Kids, really, in the clothes of an 'American Hero'. He briefly examined his own clothes in disgust, as they haven't been washed in weeks. They were matted with a combination of blood, dirt, sweat, and more blood mixed within the very fabric. His boots were too tight, he shifted his blistered feet against the soles and gritted in discomfort. The European air made him slightly sick and the state of war-zones were pathetic.

At twenty-five, he should be back home in America, but what was there to miss? No sweetheart, no home, no family still alive to care he was around. Abandoned as a child, raised in an orphanage, kicked out at eighteen to fend for himself. It's no wonder he immediately joined the army as soon as they gave him a bit of cash and the clothes on his back. His new family was now these kids who crouched down in the trenches, counting on one person to keep them alive to see another sunrise. His rough and unlikable personality made it real easy to keep him detached from these youngsters. That way, if and when they lie face down in the dirt, he'll simply regard them as another death count. Mourning over a stranger that had his head blown off was more than enough.

The end was drawing nigh as his dog tag clicked against his only lifeline. He saw one of the kid's flinch at the sudden sound. It was so quiet. He hated it when it was too still. It wasn't peaceful at all; it was war, and battles were never peaceful. It's always "the calm before the storm". The kid who flinched started to mumble a prayer. He didn't understand why people would cling to something so intangible and unexplainable so strongly. Faith, it must've been a nice feeling knowing that someone might be watching over you. But then again, who was watching out for the nineteen-year-old who stepped on that land-mine? Who was watching over the soldier who gave his life to save a comrade? Who the hell was watching over them now? No one. Not one goddamned savior, not one superior being, no one. It was just this group of kids and their sergeant in the middle of No Man's Land. None of his ten-man group was older than twenty-one years. He was considered an old man to the others. The real old man was their superior; The Sergeant. He was the one who kept everyone alive so far. The Sergeant had saved his life more than once, and he owed it to him to obey each and every order. He might've been disrespectful, and a total prick to everyone, but he held his loyalty to The Sergeant.

The distant engine of an aircraft came like a sharp knife would slice through butter. Everyone jumped, and snapped their heads to where it was coming from. He tightened his grip and couldn't believe it; there wasn't just one engine; there was a freaking swarm. It was like a wave of birds flocking to nearly helpless insects; only the insects had AK-47's and the birds were armed with missiles. Even so, the birds still had the advantage.

"Don't move!" The Sergeant ordered sternly. The kids were trembling, he was unsteady, and the aircrafts were drawing closer and closer. There wasn't any way out of this; no reinforcements, no tanks, just the troop. They could scatter, but to where? They were in the middle of No Man's Land. No man, no cover. Again, who was watching over them? They could always go out in one blaze of glory. Closer, and closer, the swarm was so close now.

"Take cover!" The Sergeant yelled while he covered within the indentation of the trench. Everyone immediately hit the deck as the crafts sped over them. He hated this feeling; vulnerability, helplessness, hiding. War was supposed to be a glorified battle of honor and duty. What the hell was this? Hide and shot? For a few minutes, the swarm seemed like a never-ending parade of enemy air-crafts. During those few long and agonizing minutes, everyone felt safe from enemy fire. That was, until the last few seconds of hell. A small barrage of bullets showered down at their trench; as some where spared, and others more unfortunate. One soldier thought it was safe and started to crawl out when at least three bullets pierced straight through his body. No one wanted to move to drag him back, even if he was still alive. He stared at the soldier, young and dying. The solider stared back at him as if he was trying to reach out to him. And yet, another small shower was sent upon the soldier, as he was lying openly as a target. He twitched as each bullet entered his body, bleeding more and more through his wounds.

'Grimm…you're not gonna die like that.' He thought to himself. 'No way in hell'. After another few minutes, one of the soldier's friend tried checking to see if there was any sign of life, but obviously, there was none. At least, that's what he thought.

"Geezus! He's still alive!" One exclaimed as they hovered around him. Everyone but Grimm crouched next to the dying child. He stood with his gun in hand, and kept his gaze with the dying soldier. Even though the solider was covered, he was staring back.

He kicked a comrade out of the way and looked at the soldier on the ground, choking on his own blood. He heaved and gagged as he was fixated with Grimm's deadly blue eyes. Grimm took his gun and shot the soldier in the head. Quick, painless, and the best part was, he didn't even see it coming. For a second, everyone was so stunned at what he had done, they ceased breathing. He didn't know why; he asked for it. Who wants to die choking on their own blood? He did him a favor.

Suddenly, every soldier in his troop was trying to beat the living crap out of him. He took it. Every punch, every kick, and every slimly wad of spit that landed on his face. He took it. All the while, he kept his eyes on the dead soldier. It was just a corpse with The Sergeant now. Everyone else was taking their unnecessary anger out on him. How childish.

"Back off." The Sergeant's commanding voice echoed through the air. Everyone stopped, but kept sending death glares at him. "Let's get him buried. He deserves that much." They all moved as Grimm sat up and spat out a wad of blood. He glared at The Sergeant, saying with his eyes, "You know I did the right thing." The Sergeant sent a message back without words saying, "Tell that to his friends".

'Screw friends…' Grimm muttered as his jaw started to throb. He rubbed it and spit another wad of blood out. He's gonna feel this tomorrow.

A/N: My first Bleach Fanfic, and my first non-romantic fic too. Killing two birds with one stone heh. I really like Grimmjow and Ulquiorra, idk about 'as a pair' but just characters in general. Best Bad Guys. I love it.


	2. the wounded

I do not own Bleach

Stage 2 – The Wounded

He slowly opened his deep green eyes to take in his surroundings. It was dark, very dark. He tried to sit up, but to no success. His whole body felt like led, and to make matters worse, it was like stiff and heavy led whenever he tried to move. Even his blood seemed thicker as it coursed through his veins. His pulse felts like a thumping, dulled pain. He felt it in his neck, his hands, his chest, and all the way down to his feet. The worse was the pulsing within his head. Slow, steady, and agonizing at the same time. It felt like someone was grabbing his brain and squeezing it just to make fun of him. Morphine, he needed to kill the pain, he needed morphine.

He looked around to see if anyone could give him what he wanted. To his right, was a soldier lying motionless on a bed. His arm had been amputated a little over three inches above his elbow. He had the good stuff in a drip going directly into his now deformed body. Now for the question to answer all other questions; what was he here for? Besides the pain and paralysis, why was he here? The only good thing about the pulsating pain was that it told him that nothing was missing. No part of him, besides his head, was truly hurting. No concentrated pain, no sharp jolts of stinging tenderness.

"War fatigue," A stern voice answered his mental thoughts. "You passed out yesterday and I took a bullet in the foot for you." It was a stern, and a bit pissed off voice. He didn't reply. He was a combination of gratefulness, pain, anger and embarrassment. He wondered if his commanding officer saw him like this. That would be the end of him. A soft groan sliced through the darkness. It was the soldier in the bed next to him with the amputated arm. Ulquiorra moved his eyes in his direction.

"Don't worry; you managed to get away with mere bumps and bruises." The smoke from a cigarette floated around as Ulquiorra had the pleasure of having the scent jammed up his nose. He hated that kind of smoke. It could kill you. "Your welcome." The voice didn't speak again after that. It was just him, and the groaning soldier next to him. The voice must've come from the bed on his left.

His eyes opened again. This time, it was in a lighter environment, with white and gold surrounding him. It was almost heavenly if it wasn't for the fact that his head might explode any minute.

"Private Schiffer?" A young woman asked for his attention. Her voice, although soft by nature, was like a stabbing sensation in his skull. "You will be moved outside later today. Those with more serious conditions need the beds." He didn't care where he was; he wanted morphine. Just dull the pain.

"Understood." He concisely replied in a stoic manner. He looked over to his left to see if the voice belonged to anyone. He didn't see anyone in the bed. He looked to his right; the man, who turned out to be just a boy, was groaning and looked deathly sick. Gangrene had taken over his arm, even though half of it was gone now. Now that it was lighter, he could see that it had taken over his leg too. Ulquiorra studied the boy for a moment as he lay still in his bed.

'He isn't going to last through today. The infection is spreading too fast, and even if they amputate the rest of his arm and leg, it'll continue spreading until it kills him. Besides, what use would he be with only one arm and one leg?' He pitied the boy for a second, and continued on with other thoughts, like thinking about the voice from last night, and where he could get some pain killers.

Death was a constant shadow of every soldier on the field. It didn't matter how you died, but when. It was all just a matter of time before everyone would die. The boy, the voice, and even himself. He really didn't mind dying; it was probably better than living. No incompetent people to deal with, no real problems to think about, and better yet; you're dead, you're never coming back the real world again.

And when he dies, would there be anyone at his corpse, acknowledging the fact that he had lived? No. Family? Somewhere out there. Friends? Just comrades. God? He was atheist by German law. So in conclusion, his death would just be another statistic. Nobody had to know who he was, or where he came from, just that he fought, and died in this bloody war.

The sun was at its peak in the day, although it was behind a thick curtain of grey clouds. It was approximately fourteen hundred hours, which meant he had to move out of the bed to make room for another poor victim of war. The young nurse came back, but Ulquiorra was already starting to dress and prepare himself for battle once again. She quickly glanced at him, checked her clipboard, scribbled a little note to herself, and walked off without saying a word. Tragedy was so common out here; most wouldn't care even if half your body got blown off. For them to start acknowledging a person, he must either commit a crime, save a whole troop, or die. Ulquiorra was well aware that a pitiful diagnose of war fatigue was like taking a nap compared to the things that rendered soldiers vulnerable to death's hand. There was someone always worse off than you in this hell-hole.

He went back to his troop where what was left of his comrades were sitting around playing cards. They were a sad-looking bunch of young adults. A few looked young enough to still be in high school, or maybe even the first year of college. Instead, they foolishly signed up to be soldier; blinded by youth and patriotism. His reason for joining; well, it was for the Führer.

Not that he was an ultra-nationalist or anything, he just felt like he was obligated to fight for his country, without questioning the judgment of the Führer. It was very simple; fight or die.

By nature, he was a solitary man with little words to waste on those who didn't deserve his spoken voice. His indifference was usually confused with depression throughout his training days and up until now with his troop. They usually attempted to 'cheer him up' for whatever reason he was down, but he usually kept his distance from all of them. They were all going to die anyway, they were all just trash.

a/n: ulquiorra's a stoic person, huh? That's why it was so hard to write this chapter. I'm not really used to that kind of character.


	3. Letting Go

I do not own bleach

Stage 3 – Letting Go

The kids forgot about their comrade pretty quick, or at least acted like they did. No one brought up his name, whatever it was, and no one tried to pick a fight with him either. He had a hunch The Sergeant had something to do with that small factor. Probably because no one even wanted to sit within the same general area as him. They were angry, perhaps, that he got away scot-free with shooting his own comrade. His jaw starting hurting. Probably from the beating he took the other day.

'Get over it.' He thought to himself. It was unbelievable that these guys were supposed to be warriors protecting their country. It was just one guy, and he was going to die sooner or later anyways. He shifted uncomfortably within a little indentation within the trench. It was a cold, dirty, stench-filled prison of a bed, but at least he could close his eyes without waking up to some psycho trying to shoot his head off.

Silence. Silence, at least for the next few hours or so. Then blasts, and killing, and explosions, and more killing, and maybe some bullets, but definitely more killing. Everything was getting all-too familiar now. It felt like this was the only life he's lived. What if the war ends? What happens then? Eternal silence? That would suck. On one hand, he wanted the war to end so he could get out of Europe, but on the other hand, what would he do once he was done with warfare? Boredom, laziness, and a normal life? What was normal?

A missile landed near their trench, and while the kids were running around, trying to fire back, Grimmjow opened his eyes and looked around.

'About time.' He scoffed as he stood up from his bed and loaded his gun up. Those Germans were trying to just end the trench warfare and probably try to bomb the trenches to oblivion. His heart rate sped up, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as a chilling jolt shot up and down his spine. The jolt made him move his feet, it made him forget that his shoes were too tight, it made him forget why he was fighting, and it made him insanely happy. So happy, in fact, he didn't want anyone else to rain on his parade, he ignored the fact he was in a war, ignored that he was just a man, and smiled. The jolt tensed his jaw up until his face was stiff with laughter. It was about time the jolt returned. It's about damn time.

With every bullet that went his way, he fired fearlessly back, as if mere bullets couldn't even scratch him. He was just too goddamned happy to acknowledge the bullets and bombs. His happiness was his fearlessness. Insanely, abnormally, psychotically content with himself. What made him grin ear to ear like this? He couldn't explain it beyond 'the jolt'. This thrilling sensation of adrenalin and pure destructive fun.

His weight was disturbed as someone pulled him back under the trench with one swift tug. The Sergeant was yelling, but nothing was coherent. He yelled, and yelled. Grimm's smile disappeared; his fun was disturbed, and he went back to his angry, pouting face of disdain. Then, as an ordinary man again, The Sergeant's voice became clear all of the sudden.

"You crazy bastard!" He shouted into his ear. Well, that wasn't anything new. "You're bleeding bullets!" He angrily screamed. Grimm looked down at his body. And, as an ordinary man, the numbing drug of thrill passed, and his mortal pain sensations took over like a tidal wave. His arms, his stomach, his leg; all hurt like a bitch. This stinging, heavy, twisting pain grabbed the wounds and hammered nails into them. He wanted to scream in agony, but his body was screaming for him. It screamed so loud, it was louder than The Sergeant's now trailing voice.

Grimm's world went black. He just fell into a bottomless pit of nothing. Like a deep circle of empty space, he fell silently, and quietly.

He dreamed of home. Actually, he dreamed of the past. His disgusting, agonizingly slow past. At the orphanage, he always picked fights. He would always get into trouble. He would never sit still. He remembered the other kids, and he remembered the care-takers. And he dreamed farther back. Farther than he'd ever remember consciously. Mother. The mother he never actually knew. The mother that abandoned him. The mother he never wanted to meet. The mother he lacked. She smelled like soap. She was tall and slender. Everything else about her was a mystery. All that was for sure was the soap scent. It was a waxy, scrunch-the-nose aroma.

He awakened. He tried to shift, but his body moaned pitifully. It was quiet again. The bombardment passed. He took one hell of a beating. His jaw throbbed. Was it hurting before? The Sergeant walked in and sat down in a rotting old chair next to his make-shift bed.

"That was a really stupid thing to do." He said with a seething undertone. He was pissed. Grimm didn't want to reply. He was too busy trying to force his body to stop hurting. "It's a miracle you're still alive…" But Grimm had to cut in here.

"Miracle? Miracle my ass. I survive because that's the way things are. The strong live, the weak die out." He sharply replied in a swift and clear-cut voice. The Sergeant stared sternly at his soldier and heaved.

"The weak need be protected by the strong." He clasped his hands together and slouched over for a more comfortable position. The chair whimpered a soft creak under his moving weight. So deathly still was the atmosphere.

"I didn't join to protect the weak. I joined to be strong." He gruffly retorted. His body was starting to go numb with pain, but he refused to show any signs of discomfort in front of The Sergeant. Pain was weakness.

"I know that, but one day, you'll realize that strength alone won't keep you alive."

"Just drop it." Grimm cut him short. He sensed a lecture coming, and didn't want to hear it. Not now, not ever. "I'm tired. Get out." He was seething from a searing sore spawning from the bullet wound in his leg. Angry that he was shot, angry at the bastard that shot him, and angry for being useless.

"Let the tough-guy act go. It'll kill you." With those last words, he left the room, leaving Grimm alone once again. The sore's stabbing sensation seeped through and down his leg. For once, he just wanted to scream like hell. It hurt. His arms were dead, his stomach was worthless, and his leg refused to just let him sleep.

His jaw throbbed softly.

a/n: This chapter took a long time. My bad. I'm really happy with the results, though. I hope you guys liked it too.


	4. The Strong

I do not own bleach

Stage 4 – The Strong

As he sat by himself eating his small ration of food, he tried to think back on the other day, and what happened before he woke up in the hospital bed. Unlike most people, his memory was exceptionally clear, as he could replay memories instead of quick snapshots.

It was foggy, and cold with the stench of decaying corpses and body odor. He pressed his helmet against the trench wall, and then peered over the side. He came face-to-face with a soldier, shot in the head, with his eyes still wide open. This was so common; he didn't even blink twice before using the butt of his rifle to push the corpse out of his field of vision. There was a gap. What happened? One thing he couldn't quite remember was voices. Someone probably spoke to him. Or at least tried to. Perhaps it was an order.

There were gunshots. He remembered flashes of light, and the piles of shells accumulating beside him. The gunpowder forced itself down his throat, making him cringe and cough while he shot his own gun. Ever since he was young, he had acute asthma. He never had a serious attack, but if put in the right surroundings, he would have some difficulty breathing.

Then he saw some idiot stand up from trench cover and started shooting in his direction. He took aim and fired back. He was sure he got the bastard in at least his body, but he kept on shooting until suddenly, he disappeared below the trench. Was he dead? Did someone shoot him in the head? He didn't know. Another gap. Another voice.

He was moving across the field. Slowly crawling with the rest under the night's cover. He started heaving and choking. Then darkness.

He snapped out of his flashbacks and glared at his bowl. What made him black out at such a time? The voice at the hospital. He said "war fatigue", didn't he? Maybe it was his asthma. He never had an attack like that though. War fatigue, asthma; its all grouped together.

"Schiffer!" He took his time moving his jaded green eyes up to attention. A man stood erect and stern in front of him; his ever strict commander, The Sergeant. "What's wrong with you, stand up in attention!" As an order, he stood up, mimicking the stiff stance his superior. The Sergeant examined him, making sure his uniform was presentable, and that he was ready for battle. Ulquiorra kept his eyes steady on the man lying down with his left foot bandaged up, and still eating his food. Maybe he was the voice who saved him.

"Daydreaming, Schiffer?" He spat at the side of his face. This was daily routine for him. As much as it bothered him that he probably got the most shit from The Sergeant, he took it, absorbed it, and then let it go to get ready for the next day. He usually got yelled at for looking like a woman, because of his large, green eyes, dark, coursed hair, and soft oval face. He was yelled at for his hair being too long all the time, too. It just grew really fast, that's all. He was yelled at for looking too timid all the time; as if his face was in a constant state of melancholy and depression. And, because of that, he was yelled at and almost tried for not wanting to fight for the Führer. He denied it, of course, and was let go. Ever since then, that was just one more thing he was yelled at for. Past misconceptions. After some more bashings, The Sergeant went fuming off, and Ulquiorra sat down again.

He turned his attention to the man with the bandaged foot. He was staring back at Ulquiorra in the same, blank expression. He didn't know how to interpret the man's expression. Probably because it was like looking into a mirror. And, like mirror images, they looked away and went on with whatever business they were previously attending to.

He closed his eyes for a bit, and rested against the trench walls.

His mind started to drift, and wander aimlessly through his memories and thoughts. In his memories, he heard crying. He was crying. 1932 during The Great Depression; and he just turned eight years old. His mother was crying with him. They cried because his father had just committed suicide to collect insurance money to help the family. It was hard times. His mother was trying as hard as she could to keep a steady job, and he was too young to work. Everything was grey then. Eight years later, after his mother had already died of poor health, he lied about his age and joined the army to fight in the war. It was 1940; he was sixteen-years old, and already leaving his entire childhood behind.

Regaining consciousness in 1944, at twenty years old, he decided to move his feet. It was pitch black outside, but it didn't make any difference to him; light or dark, he could get around.

"They're still watching us, even as you move to take a piss." It stopped him in his tracks, and tried to follow the voice. "Don't make me get up and save you again." It was the voice from the hospital, and maybe even the man with the bandaged foot. "They're closing in on us, you know. The communists from the east, and we're out here holdin' the Americans and British off. Right here at the western border." He sounded confident that he would die soon sometime in the war, and at the same time, he sounded confident enough that he could walk away without a scratch.

"Are you intending to desert?" Ulquiorra asked him in one blunt question that had 'traitor' pasted all over it. He heard a swift chuckle crack through the night's silent song.

"Who knows?" He settled down, and disappeared as his voice died out.

The bitter cold bit and stung at his body, especially his face, as he waited in silence with the troops. Snow was beginning to fall. It looked soft and fragile, but he knew that the root of all evil came disguised as something beautiful and sweet. The flakes would turn into a wall of whirling ice, and would take down anything in its path. December was coming.

The Americans and the British were moving. They were moving out of the trenches and into the hilly forests further towards the German border. At the same time, The Sergeant had been let it on the "Operation: Watch on Rhine", an attack on the Ardennes where the Americans and British were. The tanks and trucks were being moved in too. This operation was a surprise attack.

The cold air tested the endurance of his lungs and throat to see how long he could last without heaving and gasping for air. His solution was to remain as still as possible so that no energy was wasted on unnecessary movement and concentrate on breathing steady, even, breaths.

This cold weather could be the death of him.

a/n: a lot of research was required for this chapter. More than I thought I needed. But I wanted to be as accurate as possible. The German's are preparing for the attack which led to the Battle of Bulge in the Ardennes.


	5. The Angered

I do not own Bleach

Stage 5 – The Angered

All day long, Grimm pushed himself to get his ass out of bed and be of some use to his troop. Each attempt led to a failed one, as his body tensed and screamed when he started to use his muscles. Nobody visited him, only the doctor once in a while to check in on his wounds, feed him meals, and re-wrap his bandages. The Sergeant was too busy talking to his superiors to figure out what the German's were going to do next. Even he knew they were probably going for a surprise attack to overwhelm them in order to take over Antwerp, Belgium. The Germans.

"Che!" He scoffed to himself. Nobody could hear him; he was all alone in his quarters. He began to replay the trench fire. He knew when he was under the grasp of 'the jolt' he knew he would do anything to satisfy his needs. He knew he stood up and started to fire. But what made him stay there for so long? He knew he was getting shot at. Something about the other side made him wonder who was behind the gun that shot him. How many tried to shoot him down, how many Germans actually hit him and why he couldn't have just gotten a sniper and shoot their frickin' brains out. Frickin' jolt. He should've taken a bazooka or something.

He forced his arm to take a cigarette and forced his other arm to light it. He tilted his head up and dropped back into the pillow from exhaustion. He blew out the smoke through his nose and closed his eyes. He'd been in the medical ward for about six days now. Six days since he was shot. Six days since he had felt alive. Then he wondered. How would he die?

If he knew he'd die of old age, he'd shoot himself in the head right now. Live hard, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse. That sounded good. Maybe he would die of some suicidal bomber as he rode on an airplane home. Or maybe, he would shoot himself out of insanity to get out of the war. He knew that happened to some kid who wanted out but couldn't leave. Not that he truly hated the war. In fact, it was the only place he felt he belonged. Even as an outsider from his own troop.

He looked at the ceiling with no particular reason why he was practically sleeping with his eyes open. It was just one of those moments where you just want to stare at something and let your thoughts wander.

If he could encounter the bastard who shot him, what would he do? Punch him in the face. Then cap him in the knee. Both knees. Or shoot him in the same places he got shot. Yeah, that sounded good. He was probably an ugly son-of-a-bitch, tall and bulky. Blond hair and blue eyes. That's how Grimm pictured all Germans.

A week later, he was released from the bed, or rather, he released himself. As soon as he was able to move his legs he got out of bed and started walking around. The freezing winds greeted him with a cold shoulder. He spat on the ground, and could've sworn it froze as it hit the ground.

His bandages were still hidden underneath his clothes. Some guys thought it was cool to have bandages showing; a sign that they fought and had battle scars, or battle bandages to prove it. Grimm thought that kind of logic was complete bullshit. He believed if you had bandages showing, you were bitching that you were wounded and can't fight at full potential.

As he walked through trenches he looked up at the forested area. The Ardennes. A reasonably quiet area. After they moved from No Man's Land they could take a breather. The Rookie U.S 99th and 106th divisions were here because they were inexperienced, and The Ardennes wasn't that active. Troops that had seen more battle than the Rookies had seen on T.V were moved to the Ardennes too.

He noticed that there was snow on the ground now. There was only a little, but it was there. Back at home, they were based in a valley, so it never snowed. Even if it did, it wouldn't stay on the ground for long. He heard the snow compact as his boots pressed down on the soft ice. The snow felt better to walk on than dirt.

"Sorry." A man apologized as he bumped into Grimm's bandaged arm. It hurt, but he kept his poker face to prevent signs of weakness. Before the man could walk further, he grabbed his collar.

"Watch where your goin'." He growled menacingly. The man glared back in a blank stare. It was as if he was telling Grimm, "What do you want?" And that kind of stare really pissed him off. He glanced at his dog tag. He picked it up from his neck and looked at it.

'Rufus Payne' Ugly name for a guy who almost looked like a woman. He threw the dog tag down, and moved on. If he ever saw this guy again, he'd punch him in the face. Today, he was exercising self-control. He walked by his troop, the lazy bunch of punks, and sat down near them. It's not like he wanted to, it's just that he felt slightly less out of place with them than with the other troops. He heard them trying to comfort a kid.

"I know he's gone…But he was my brother! I can't believe it. How? What the hell!" He was trying to hold back tears, but the fact that others were comforting made it that much harder.

"I lost my old man too. It was really hard to identify his body after he was torched to death. The only thing that was left was his dog tag and dental records."

"I knew it was him, but someone ripped his tag right off him! Who the hell would do that?" Grimm sat idly as he stared at the branches of the trees again. They were getting layered with snow. "How am I gonna tell ma? It'll kill her!"

"She still has you, man. At least she still has one son now."

"You know, out of all the cousins, me and my bro were the only Payne's going to war. Can you believe that?" Grimm's ears perked as he jerked to the side. "Mom's gonna miss Rufie. I know she will, he was the youngest after all." Grimm shot up and walked over to the kid. He looked at his tag, and read it.

'Richard Payne' He didn't say anything, he just threw it down and looked for 'Rufus'.

He back-tracked his route, this time, darting his eyes every which way to find the girly man. He ran across the snow, huffing and leaving his trail of breath behind him. What the hell would a soldier do with a dead man's dog-tag? He was either some kid who couldn't get into the army, or an enemy in disguise. But he didn't have any accent. Then again, he only said one word.

Think. What did he look like? His face! Remember his face!

Big green eyes. Long black hair. Girly features.

Looks like he really will punch him in the face.

a/n: I was studying for finals…which lead to a major writer's block. Sorry for not updating in a while. Again, more researching…


	6. The Final Scene

I do not own Bleach

Stage 6 – The Final Scene

"Special mission?" Ulquiorra questioned in his ever mellow tone.

"That's what I said, isn't it? Stand up straighter!" The Sergeant had just handed him the word that as a part of their surprise attack against the Allies, they were sending a group of English-speaking Germans behind enemy lines. He knew he shouldn't have taken English in high school. "Follow me." He ordered as he turned around and marched to where ever he was taking him. Ulquiorra looked over his shoulder, and saw the man with the bandaged foot grin at him. He simply turned his attention back to his route and told himself he'll probably never see these trenches again.

He entered a room with about two dozen more men, maybe less. All relatively normal looking soldiers. So these were the poor losers who took English in high school too?

"Sit down, soldier." A commanding voice ordered him. He shifted his gaze over, and saw a stark and looming character of a man. Otto Skorzeny. The infamous commando leader; known for leading the rescue capture of Benito Mussolini and the kidnapping of Miklos Horthy. Ulquiorra quietly obeyed as he sat down with his back against the wall.

As the ceremony dragged on, Ulquiorra was told that from the captured American jeeps, and soldiers they had acquired, they were to commence a false-flag operation. Something of a guerilla attack. But not necessarily an attack; just confusion. Their initial mission was to take over the vital bridges over the Meuse. But overall, they were to create confusion in the defense so the real attack would be swift and efficient. Creating a _bulge_, basically. It was underhanded, but he understood why Skorzeny would want this operation underway.

The next morning, Ulquiorra and his fellow English-speakers were given American uniforms and dog tags. As they rode forward in the jeeps, he wondered if this would actually work. He looked over to the driver. Dark haired, average height, average build.

"How much English do you know?" A soldier behind him asked in English.

"Enough." He replied back in no-accent English.

"You know, each and every one of us was chosen because we could speak perfect English. They say we're 'specially trained'." He laughed. He didn't have an accent either.

"Shut up already, we're almost there." The driver shouted to the backseat in German. They all stepped out of the vehicle and got in without a problem. The driver said that they had ammunition and fuel to unpack. Ulquiorra took his free time to walk around. He had to have some idea of where to go in case he was found out by the enemies. He scanned the area like a radar and made sure he saw every inch of where he was walking so he could replay it for later. As he stared at a perfect hideout near the bridge, he bumped into someone.

"Sorry." He apologized passively. His collar was grabbed and soon, he was jerked backwards.

"Watch where your goin'." He warned. Ulquiorra didn't like it when he was threatened. In fact, he didn't even like it when someone was too close for comfort. It popped his bubble of personal space. On top of this, he was being touched. Bubble. Being. Invaded. The man had obnoxious blue hair and blue-green eyes to match. He looked alien and cartoonish, almost to the point of being ridiculous, if not for the sour scowl pasted on his face. He grabbed the dog tag around his neck and quickly threw it back against his chest. He moved on. And, so did he.

As they walked their different ways, Ulquiorra told himself he'd kill that guy the next time he'd see him. If he ever did anything like that again, he'd shoot him in the head. He made his way to the River Meuse. He scouted out his hiding spot and went to inspect. Then he heard footsteps, loud and fast. They stopped, shuffled around in the snow, and ran forward. Ulquiorra poked out of his spot and noticed the blue haired brute that bumped into him. He was either looking for another fight, or he had found out. Perhaps the dog tag gave too much away. Almost immediately, soldiers were running around like brainless flies and shouting things like "imposters!" and "spies!" and so forth. Ulquiorra sat down in his spot to gather his thoughts and just think. He knew, no, they all knew that something like this would happen, but why so soon? They had to take control over the Meuse. He looked above him and saw the major bridge on which tanks and jeeps moved across to transport supplies. He never felt so useless. There it was; a major bridge, right above him, and he could do nothing.

He had to get out the spot before the blue-haired brute found him. He's the only one that knew for now. He peered around the rock and snow that hid him and scanned the area. Stupid flies, running around with no real purpose. That's all he could see. It was safe. He crawled out and began to stand up when he felt a heavy gun press against the back of his head. For some reason, he just knew it was the blue-haired brute. He reached for his own gun, but heard the gun load.

"Walk." He ordered in a seething undertone. He had no choice. This was it. He was getting captured.

He was forced to walk into a cell and the guards made sure all his weapons were in their possession. He sat down on a bench in the dark cell, and looked at his boots. Shoe-string. He only had one guard to deal with. Everybody else was busy flying around. First, answers.

"Guard." The guard stood still, but knew it got his attention.

"Who was the soldier who brought me here?" He started to untie his shoelaces as he spoke.

"Why do you care?" The soldier retorted.

"I need his name. So I can kill him." He replied as he started to untie the strings that held the boot together.

"Hah! Kill him? Grimm's invincible. He never dies."

"Grimm? Like, the Grim Reaper?"

"Maybe. I don't think he's even human. One time, he stood up from a trench in the middle of a trench fire! Crazy bastard, but look at him he's…" Ulquiorra cut him off short with his shoe string and started to strangle the man to death.

"Trench fire, huh." He tied the string in a taut knot against the bars and reached for his gun. He took the hand gun out of his holster and fired from the back. He reached for the keys and freed himself from the cell. More footsteps approached the room. When five more men entered, he took the automatic from the dead guard and fired. When a sixth entered, he fired with the handgun. He looked at the sixth man, and realized he must've been a sergeant. As he took a few seconds to study the corpse, someone from behind the door shot at him. The bullet skimmed the side of his skull, making his blood drizzle down his face and neck. He fired back, but he didn't know where it came from, so he took the automatic and fired through the walls, hoping a few would hit the guy.

"So, you killed him?" The course voice gritted. He was hit, but because he was moving around so much, his previous wounds had opened too. "You killed The Sergeant?" The voice. It was him. That voice was unforgettable.

"I should have killed you during trench fire." The blood the was splattered across his face oozed down like red tears. He crouched behind a desk and looked for ammunition on the bodies.

"You're really pissing me off, you know."

"The feeling's mutual." That bastard jeopardized his opportunity to serve his country, and do something useful. Why he had to bump into this imbecile and be completely ruined was beyond him. Maybe that God was punishing him. God. A mysteriously playful being, isn't it? Toying with his fate. How cruel.

"Che." Grimm glanced down at his sergeant. Dead. And the bastard behind the door was the cause. He'll pay. The Jolt wrung his spine like a twisted cloth. It punched and kicked at his heart like a mule, and forced his body to forget the pain that bastard created before. He was pissed and armed.

He jumped out behind the wall, and fired at will. They both ran around the room, and took cover with whatever they had. A desk, a body, whatever worked. Soon, they got close enough to fight without weapons.

They fought hand-to-hand combat in the center of the room. Just a good brawl they both needed out of their systems. Ulquiorra got the money shot by pounding his fist into his already wounded stomach, but Grimm replied with a punch to the face. Revenge was a bitch after you get hit by it. Ulquiorra finally found the opening he was looking for. Right then; he swiped a gun from a corpse, and shoved it into his mouth.

"Trash." He said blankly. Not even worthy to be classified as human. The American fell to the floor; instantly killed from the bullet that blew his brains out. As he surveyed the area; he realized he had killed more people than he did when he was fighting behind the trenches. If they had been a little more careful about a prisoner of war, this wouldn't have happened, would it? Pathetic trash. They deserved to die. Especially the blue-haired one. He was the lowest of all trash. He knew with all the commotion he had caused, there would be more, and he would be tortured for information later. He hesitated for a bit until he heard the footsteps. The loud, pounding footsteps beating rhythmically against the floors advanced closer and closer to him. He looked at the corpses, then at the gun with a solemn gaze. He wasn't going to betray his country, much less The Führer. Besides, he knew the Germans were losing the war, what difference would it make if he somehow made it back alive? Nothing. Not one damn percentage higher of winning the war. Besides, he practically already failed his country by getting caught like this. What a waste. As the reinforcements came busting through the door, Ulquiorra already had the gun to his head, and before they could tackle him as a prisoner of war; he fired.

As he predicted, just another statistic. A casualty of war.

In total, there is a reported 176,421 casualties from the Battle of Bulge. This includes British, American and German troops. This battle is considered one of the bloodiest battles of WWII with a reported 89,987 casualties (dead, wounded, captured, or missing) from the Americans alone. Germany suffered 84,834 casualties.

_Bulge –_ in military 'speech' a bulge was something that protruded into enemy lines. Similar to a salient (which was a point of a trench which extended closest to enemy lines) In this case, the bulge was the undercover force Ulquiorra's on, pushing behind enemy lines. Hence, the name of the battle.

a/n: and so, the story of their 'human' selves lives exists purely as a theory. Hah. The fact that I've become obsessed with these two characters drove me insane until i got their past off my chest. It'll probably never be revealed, but now that i've written my ideas down, i can sleep easier. Hope everybody enjoyed it!!


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